by Valpy, Fiona
Mireille stroked her arm, comforting her. With a sigh, she said, ‘Well you’re certainly not the first girl to have had her head turned by the promise of a little luxury and indulgence. But the important thing is that you’ve learnt your lesson now. The next time a dashing German officer crosses your path, you won’t take the bait quite so easily, I reckon.’
‘I won’t take the bait at all,’ Claire retorted, with a vehemence that made Mireille smile. ‘I hate the Nazis. For everything they have done. To me. To my family. And to my country.’
As she nursed her broken heart and tried to focus on her work in the months that followed, Claire sensed that change was in the air. When the Germans first invaded, there had been a sense of numb incomprehension amongst the citizens of Paris. And perhaps it had been tempting to believe the propaganda posters that had appeared, showing kindly-looking Nazi soldiers protecting France’s people and providing food for France’s starving children. But as the calendar rolled over to another new year, the mood had shifted.
There was a sense of volatility sweeping through the city. Stories of protests and acts of defiance were rife and some Résistants even dared to attack their German occupiers. Of course, the retaliation against such acts was swift and brutal: executions took place in the streets, and everyone had heard talk of the trains that pulled cattle trucks filled with human cargo, which departed more and more frequently from the Gare d’Austerlitz and the Gare de l’Est. There were rumours, too, of an internment camp in the Drancy suburb to the north-east of the city centre, to which the Jewish residents who had been rounded up were sent. The fact that this camp was patrolled by the French police rather than by German guards only added to the sense of angry unease that more and more of Paris’s inhabitants were beginning to feel.
And now this unease was beginning to work its way into Claire’s consciousness. She worried for her brothers, Jean-Paul and Théo. There had been no news of them. Had they managed to meet up in Germany? She hoped they had and that they worked alongside one another in some factory somewhere, keeping each other’s spirits up until the day they could return to their home in France. She grieved for Luc, and nausea rose in her throat when she thought of his body lying in a war grave in the east, all that time that she had so foolishly spent with Ernst – an agent of the very regime which had killed her brother. It was as if she’d been sleepwalking through those months, seduced by the illusion that money and glamour would change her life, distracting her from the reality of what was happening in the world around her.
As time went by, though, and the mood in the city around her changed, Claire felt a change happening within herself as well. Her heart had begun to mend – as hearts will do if they are given enough exposure to time and the kindness of good friends – and as it mended, it transformed into something new. The hard lesson that she’d learned had forced her to reflect on the person she really was, and on the person she wanted to be, and she discovered a new core of resolve within herself.
And so it was, one evening when Vivi had stayed on at her work in the sewing room again, that Claire knocked on the door of Mireille’s room.
‘Come in!’ called Mireille from within.
Claire stepped over the threshold, into the tiny bedroom under the eaves, and stood in silence for a moment, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Then she said, ‘I want to help. Tell me what I can do, Mireille. I am ready to fight back now.’
Mireille rose from where she sat on her bed and pushed the door closed, quietly but firmly. Then she patted the quilted cover, motioning Claire to sit down.
‘It’s not that easy, Claire. Are you certain that this is a step you want to take?’ she asked in a low voice.
Claire nodded. ‘I hate them. I hate what they have done to me, personally – to my family – and what they continue to do to our country. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get here, but I’m ready now.’
Mireille gave her a long, appraising look, as if seeing her friend for the first time. ‘Very well then,’ she said at last. ‘I’ll speak to someone. I’ll let you know.’
Claire slept more deeply that night than she had done in many years, as if her newfound resolve provided an extra blanket to warm the bitter chill that had kept her frozen for so long. And as it melted, it bonded the final pieces of her shattered heart back together, into something altogether stronger.
Mireille and Claire crossed the Pont Neuf one bright morning in February. It was the Sunday before Lent and the bells of Notre-Dame were ringing, summoning the faithful to Mass, but the girls pressed on, crossing to the right bank of the Seine and continuing along the quayside, following the silver ribbon of the river downstream until they reached the Tuileries garden. There were no special pastries in the windows of the bakeries that they passed, nor would there be any chocolates to be enjoyed when Easter finally arrived that year. The privations of the war were biting harder than ever now, making themselves felt in the constant hunger that gnawed at the girls’ stomachs. They had grown so used to the pangs now, though, that they hardly noticed any more.
At the entrance to the park, Mireille put a hand on Claire’s arm, stopping her for a moment. ‘Are you still sure that you want to do this, Claire? You haven’t had second thoughts?’
‘No. More than ever, I am sure.’
Mireille smiled, taking in the look of determination on her friend’s face. It was a new expression, one that she hadn’t seen in Claire’s gentle demeanour until recently, and it revealed a side to her character that had lain dormant. But now it had been awakened and Mireille recognised a flame of resolute defiance in her friend, the same flame that burned in her own breast.
It had taken several weeks for Mireille to convince the other members of the network that Claire could be relied upon. She’d been upfront with them about Claire’s liaison with a German officer, but had also told them that she had grown certain of her friend’s commitment to work against the invaders during their heart-to-hearts over the past few months. Eventually the dyer had told her that Monsieur Leroux was prepared to meet her friend, as there might be a role for her. ‘Bring her to the Tuileries on Sunday morning. He will be walking past the Jeu de Paume at eleven o’clock. He wants to talk to her, to see if she really is suitable.’
She recognised his tall figure from a distance as they approached. He was strolling past the entrance to the gallery which housed Monet’s beautiful waterlily paintings. Now, though, the artworks were kept behind locked doors and a German soldier stood guard outside. Monsieur Leroux appeared completely unconcerned by the soldier’s presence and even nodded pleasantly in the guard’s direction as he passed by. When the girls approached, a little more slowly now given the presence of the Nazi soldier in the background, he made a show of stopping, as if surprised and pleased to recognise the two girls who also happened to be out for a stroll, enjoying the sunshine on that bright, early spring morning. He raised his hat to them and Mireille introduced Claire, who looked at him quizzically for a moment, as if she recognised him from somewhere, but couldn’t quite place him. He smiled at the two girls and then, as if politely suggesting that they continue their walk together, he gestured towards a distant avenue of pleached hornbeams, and they fell into step beside him.
He looked, for all the world, like the playboy he was reputed to be. Mireille had heard the models speculating about him as she’d been pinning up the hem of a woman’s coat that he had commissioned. ‘Apparently he has several mistresses. He always keeps his accounts separate and pays them in cash, so they won’t find out about each other I suppose. He must be absolutely loaded! He seems to favour our Nazi visitors, too. I saw him at the Brasserie Lipp the other evening and he was wining and dining a “grey mouse”. I reckon she wanted to eat the sauerkraut there to remind her of home. Anyway, I hope this coat isn’t for her – she was a real dumpling. One of the other girls says he hosts Nazi officers and their wives there sometimes, too.’
‘He’s very handsome, that sandy hair makes him lo
ok so distinguished,’ the other model had remarked, languorously rearranging her silk dressing gown where it had slipped open to reveal the black lace of the camisole she wore underneath. She took another drag on her cigarette and blew the smoke towards the ceiling of the room behind the salon, where the models waited in between clients’ visits.
The first model had sniffed. ‘He’s alright, if you like that sort of thing, I suppose. His looks are a little too Germanic for my liking, along with the company he keeps. Ouch!’ She remonstrated, pulling away from Mireille, who knelt at the model’s feet with her pincushion. ‘Watch what you’re doing with those pins, clumsy! If you catch these stockings with one, it’ll cost you a whole week’s wages to replace them.’
And Mireille had ducked her head and smiled to herself as she’d put the last pin in place on the hem of the coat.
If only they could see him now, she thought to herself, as they wandered down the broad, central pathway towards the pond in the middle of the gardens. As if reading her thoughts, he shot her a quick smile before turning his attention to questioning Claire about her family and her home back in Brittany. His tone was casually conversational, but Mireille could sense that he was testing Claire, still making up his mind whether or not she could be relied upon as a member of the network.
They reached the hornbeam avenue and sauntered beneath the straight-cut walls of the trees’ branches. At first glance, the twigs were dead-looking. But Mireille knew that if you looked a little more closely, you could make out the tightly furled buds, waiting to clothe the trees in their summer finery. As the three of them walked down the avenue, they nodded greetings to the few others that they passed who had also decided to skip Mass and enjoy the brightness of a clear spring day instead. After half an hour, they had doubled back towards the Jeu de Paume and Monsieur Leroux prepared to take his leave before they came back in sight of the guard. He smiled and nodded at Mireille, signalling that he was convinced that Claire would be an asset to the network.
Turning to Claire, he said, ‘Well, Mademoiselle Meynardier, thank you for volunteering to help us. You will make a very useful messenger, I believe. Mireille will advise you, and pass you your instructions from time to time.’
He turned to go, but then stopped. ‘Oh, I almost forgot!’ He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a package, containing three bars of chocolate with the distinctive palm tree and elephant design on the wrappers. ‘You’d better make sure you eat these before Lent begins on Wednesday, mesdemoiselles.’
The girls gasped in delight.
‘Merci, monsieur. Look, Mireille,’ Claire exclaimed, ‘we can give one to Vivi too!’ She turned to Monsieur Leroux. ‘She’s our friend – another of the seamstresses, who lives above the shop with us. She loves chocolate as much as we do.’
‘Indeed?’ he replied. He cast an appraising glance over Claire. Did Mireille imagine it, or was there a flash of amusement in his hazel eyes? ‘Well in that case it’s extremely fortuitous that I managed to lay my hands on three bars for you.’
Then his expression grew serious again and he said, ‘Go well, girls. And be careful.’
Claire’s pulse had fluttered with nerves when Mireille had given her her first assignment – a message to be passed to Monsieur and Madame Arnaud with instructions for moving on a Jewish businessman they’d been harbouring for a few days while an escape plan could be put in place. That first job had gone smoothly and Claire had made it to the safe house and back, encountering just one impromptu road block on the way. She’d managed to smile at the guards as they checked her identity papers and she hadn’t wavered when they asked her to open the attaché case she carried. She had shown them the sheet music inside and explained that she was on her way to a singing lesson, as she’d been briefed to do by Mireille. That time, she’d memorised the addresses and instructions, so there was no risk of the Nazis finding anything as they’d leafed through the papers. They had nodded her through the barriers and one had even wished her a good evening as she continued on her way into the Marais.
So she felt a little more confident the next time, when Mireille handed her the note with a rough map sketched on the back and instructed her to deliver it to Christiane, the passeuse who lived out to the south-west of the city at Billancourt.
‘Are you sure you’re up for this?’ Mireille asked her, anxiously. ‘It’s a long way to go and you’ll need to keep the note concealed. Take the attaché case again and the sheets of music, and use the same excuse of a singing lesson if you’re stopped. I’d take the note myself, but I have to be at the station this evening . . .’
Claire smiled. ‘I’ll be fine, Mireille. I can unpick the facing underneath my coat collar and hide the note there. A few stitches will hold it in place and no one will be any the wiser. And I’ve memorised the directions for where to meet Christiane. Don’t worry, I’ll see you back here in time for the curfew.’
Dusk was falling as the two girls crossed the river. Army trucks filled with soldiers, whose uniforms were emblazoned with stark black and red insignia, rumbled past them, and on the northern horizon the beams of distant searchlights created a false sunrise, sweeping the skies for allied planes. On the right bank, Claire and Mireille embraced quickly and then went their separate ways.
On her return to the Rue Cardinale, as Mireille opened the door of the apartment she was met by Vivi.
‘Oh, Mireille! I’m so glad you’re back. I wasn’t sure where you’d gone . . .’ She looked past her into the stairwell. ‘But where is Claire? I thought she’d be with you?’
Mireille shook her head. ‘No. She remembered she had an errand to run. She’ll be back very soon, I expect.’
‘Where did she go?’ Vivi’s face was pale in the light of the hallway. Mireille was taken aback by the urgency of her tone. Vivi never usually asked any questions about the comings and goings of her two flatmates and, until now, she had shown no interest in where they went and what they did in their free time.
‘I . . . I can’t say. I mean, I’m not sure . . .’ Mireille faltered.
Vivienne grasped her by the arms then, more insistent now. ‘Mireille, you have to tell me. This is crucial. I know about your missions. But tonight . . .’ She took a deep breath, stopping herself, choosing her words a little more carefully. ‘Okay, you don’t have to say exactly where she is, but just tell me which direction she’s gone in.’
Mireille’s mind churned, trying to take in what Vivi had just revealed, realising – as the penny dropped – that this must be truly urgent for Vivi to have disclosed the fact that she was in the know about the network.
‘She . . . she went south-west.’
Vivi’s eyes widened and seemed to darken in the whiteness of her face. ‘Where south-west?’
Again, Mireille hesitated, and was shocked when Vivi shook her with a strength that belied her apparent fragility. ‘You have to tell me, Mireille,’ she insisted.
Mireille shook her head. She couldn’t give away that information, it had been drummed into her not to. Even sharing details with those on her own side put everyone at even greater risk. And then, out of the blue, she remembered Monsieur Leroux and the look in his eyes when she and Claire had been taking leave of him in the Tuileries that day – Claire had told him that they’d give the third bar of chocolate to their friend Vivi and his eyes had betrayed a glint of amusement. He knew Vivi. She was something to do with him. Mireille remembered, too, how he had questioned her at the Café de Flore, about her work in the atelier, about the seamstresses that lived above the shop, and it dawned on her that he had placed Vivi there in the apartment, with them.
Vivi shook her again, more urgently. ‘Trust me, Mireille. You have to trust me.’
Mireille looked deep into her friend’s eyes and saw a light of pleading in their clear hazel depths. And then she said, ‘Billancourt.’
Vivi released her grip on Mireille’s arms and her hands flew to her own face in horror. ‘No! Not there! They’re bom
bing there tonight. I’ve only just heard . . . The Renault factory . . . we have to go, now, and get her back.’
Terror gripped Mireille as Vivi’s words sunk in. ‘But it’s late – the curfew . . . Oh, Vivi!’
Vivienne was already pulling on her coat. ‘I’m going. We have to at least try to warn her. You don’t have to come. Just give me the address.’
Mireille shook her head and now it was her turn to lay a restraining hand on her friend’s arm. ‘I’ll go, Vivi. I know the route she’d have taken. There’s no point us both risking it. You know that – probably better than I do.’ She hugged Vivienne tightly for a moment. ‘Thank you. For telling me. Now stay here and wait. Claire is my responsibility. The network couldn’t afford to lose all three of us.’
Reluctantly, Vivi slumped against the door frame. Mireille knew that this was the right thing to do, although she was also aware that the other members of the network would have disagreed and told her to stay put too. Better to minimise the risk, they would say. Better only to lose one of you. But this was Claire. She couldn’t sit there in the apartment and do nothing, knowing that she’d sent her friend into the danger zone. She had to go and find her and bring her back safely.